


A Fair Deal

by linndechir



Category: The Hateful Eight (2015)
Genre: M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism, Rough Oral Sex, Shaving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-31
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2019-08-07 04:40:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16401491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/linndechir/pseuds/linndechir
Summary: Chris sprained his wrist so badly he can't shave. Warren doesn't so much take pity on him as use the opportunity to have his fun.





	A Fair Deal

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PositivelyVexed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PositivelyVexed/gifts).



“What’s on your mind, Chris Mannix?”

The question didn’t break Chris’s focus; if anything, that long familiar, rumbling voice only made it easier to concentrate and watch as strong hands sharpened his old razor in regular, practised movements. It was almost hypnotising to watch, and to hear, that repetitive sharp sound as the blade was pulled over the leather. Wasn’t the first time he was watching Warren’s hands with a bit too much interest – the dark skin, the lines and marks age and a hard life had left on it without ever making them look weak. Wasn’t the first time he was watching them do something perfectly ordinary and getting all hot under his collar.

The sound stopped, and Chris tore himself away to look up into Warren’s face. He hated that sly twinkle in his eyes and that big, smug smile. Hated how much Warren always looked like he knew exactly what was on Chris’s mind at any given moment, and he hated even more that Warren was usually right, too. Chris scratched his chin nervously and cursed under his breath when his fingers came away wet from the shaving foam. Underneath it his beard had grown far longer than he liked, coarse and uneven and a little patchy. It made him look like an unkempt beggar, but he’d sprained his right wrist so badly the week before that he could barely wipe his own ass, let alone shave. When he’d tried that morning despite knowing better, he’d promptly cut himself.

He would have said that his travelling companion had taken pity on him, except that it was Major Marquis Warren he was travelling with, who was only familiar with pity as a useful sentiment he could exploit in other people. More like he got some sick thrill out of the idea of putting a blade to Chris’s throat. Chris swallowed. He still hadn’t answered, but the morning sun’s gleam on the sharpened blade kept distracting him. Warren lifted it, tapped the flat side of it lazily against his own bearded cheek, and grinned.

Warren always liked making Chris wait. Maybe it was because he knew Chris wasn’t the most patient of people even on his best days, or maybe he just liked being able to make a white man dance to his tune. Right now Chris wasn’t in a hurry, though. Things weren’t going to get better for him once that blade was lowered to his face. So he forced himself to remain quiet and breathe instead of letting his mouth get him in even more trouble. Warren finally laughed and tipped Chris’s chin back with a dismissive little touch before he started on the first sweep across Chris’s throat.

“All right, don't tell me, suit yourself. I have a feeling I know exactly what you’re thinking about,” the bastard said just as the blade stopped by Chris's jaw. Chris didn’t miss the amusement in Warren's eyes when he tensed. “I bet your daddy used to have an old slave who shaved his ugly face every morning on the patio.”

Chris had rarely heard anyone pack as much venom into one word as Major Warren did when he spoke about Chris’s daddy, and he’d grown up around men whose words were every bit as sharp as their knives. Chris could just imagine the picture Warren was painting for him – a giant white mansion surrounded by endless cotton fields, a gentleman in a white suit, a slave standing behind him. Chris's life had never looked like that, idle and pristine, not even with all the extra shine nostalgia added to the picture.

And Warren must have known it, or suspected it at least, because he went on without Chris having to answer. “No, he didn’t, did he? ‘cos you hillbillies couldn't afford that. Just wished for it every day while telling yourselves you were better than the black folks you were working to death in the fields. This must be a dream come true for you.”

The scrape of the razor over Chris’s cheek was too loud, somehow. It echoed in Chris’s ears as loudly as his father's thunderous voice when he'd lost his temper, or the cannons during the war. The blade was so sharp that he barely felt it move over his skin, certainly sharp enough not to cut him. Not by accident, at least. He only dared to speak when Warren pulled the blade away from his face to wipe it clean. 

“You ain’t nothing like the black folk featuring in any of my dreams of a better life, Major.”

Warren laughed, and Chris quickly shut his mouth when the blade scraped over his cheek again. 

“Except the kinda dreams you sure as hell wouldn’t tell your daddy about, ain’t that right?”

It took Chris every bit of self-control he had not to flinch. He closed his eyes instead, but that only made the sensation of the blade moving over his face worse. He still wasn’t sure if looking up at Warren would be any better, feeling those knowing dark eyes on him, seeing right through all the objections he would have voiced if he’d dared to move. There was something proprietary about the way Warren touched his face, two fingers on his chin, then his jaw, to turn his face to the side so he could reach the other cheek. Chris shuddered when the blade scraped over his chin, catching for a split second at his bottom lip in a way that made him worry Warren had cut him, but Warren was as good with a razor as he was with any other blade, his hands steady and skilled. He didn’t kill by accident.

That image Warren’s words had conjured up had been a servile one, laughably so when there was nothing servile about this. Chris felt more like a sheep getting shorn than a rich man getting a shave. He let out a shaky breath when Warren finished on his upper lip and then slowly cleaned the blade, his eyes meeting Chris’s again and catching them right there, like a hare caught by a snake.

Without a word Warren handed him a towel to dab off the remaining foam, and before Chris was even properly done, Warren grabbed his chin again, turned his face so and so, then patted his cheek.

“Much better,” he said. His thumb stroked over Chris's cheek, his chin, then his upper lip. It wasn't a caress, instead it reminded Chris of the thorough way Warren would check his gun or his saddle, making sure that an object he wanted to use was up to his standards. A chill prickled down Chris's spine, but as always he didn't manage to convince himself that it was discomfort or disgust. He could think of enough things to say, but nothing that Warren wouldn't twist and throw right back at him. Maybe Warren would be content to leave it at this, with Chris agitated and impatient and itching for something they both knew he couldn't make himself ask for. Chris wasn't sure if he would have been grateful for that or disappointed. 

"Smooth as a boy at one of those special brothels, you know the kind." Warren's voice was amused, like all this was a particularly funny game.

"I ain't never been to a place like that, I'll have you know!" Chris burst out, and that was true at least. Brothels, certainly, usually with his brothers, but they never would have taken him to the kind that had boys, and he never would have gone on his own for fear of someone seeing him. 

"That so, Chris Mannix?" Warren still had his hand on Chris's cheek, the rough callouses of his palm almost painful on Chris's freshly shaved skin. "Worried your daddy would beat you bloody if he found out, hm? Especially if he caught you sucking cock like a starved whore instead of the other way around. Think he would have let you live? Or would he have strung you up next to some of those black folk you lot murdered for sport?"

"You really need to stop talking about my daddy, Major," Chris said almost automatically. It was a familiar argument, comfortable almost, certainly less trouble than wherever this was going, and less painful than thinking about all the ways he could have disappointed his father. "He was a great man and -" 

For a moment he thought Warren was about to slap him like an unruly child, but instead he shoved his thumb roughly between Chris's lips, forcing his teeth apart. Part of Chris wanted to bite, but Warren had that look in his eyes again, the one that made it so easy to do as he was told instead of fighting back. Chris's world had always made more sense when he'd done as he was told, and something about Major Warren gave him that same calm certainty, even though none of the things they did when they were alone made any sense in Chris's world.

"I'm feeling generous today, Chris, so we'll make a deal," Warren said. He didn't pull back his thumb to let Chris reply, but took his agreement for granted. Shoved his thumb in a bit deeper too. "I'll stop talking about your daddy and you'll be good and polite just like he taught you and say thank you for me helping you out, how about that?" 

Chris was almost grateful he couldn't speak or he might have blurted out that it had been his momma who'd taught him to be polite (his daddy had been all about obedience and loyalty), and the last thing he needed was for Warren to drag her through the mud, too. So he nodded instead, and when that was met with a sceptical look, he forced out a muffled "yes".

Warren smiled a smile that would have made the devil proud, and kept smiling as he slowly dragged his thumb over Chris's tongue to his lips, then rubbed over Chris's bottom lip. 

"You can do better than that, boy. Don't make me get the razor again."

The whimper that tore itself from Chris's throat was as loud to his ears as the scrape of the razor had been earlier. He couldn't look away from Warren's face, from the dismissive amusement in his eyes. Everything his daddy had taught him told him to get up on his feet, grab Warren's gun from his holster and shoot him in the gut. This close, even his left hand could easily get it done. 

But his daddy was dead and Chris's world didn't make a lick of sense anymore, because if it did, he wouldn't have been here in the first place, letting that black murderer put a blade to his throat, turning his back on him every night they slept side by side, watching his back every time they brought in another bounty. 

He'd kept Warren waiting for too long, because his thoughts were interrupted by a light slap across his cheek, hardly painful, but his whole face still felt too sensitive. 

"Yes, sir," he said, then added quickly, "Thank you, Major, sir."

That got him another pat on the cheek, and this time Chris leant into it, eyes closing so he wouldn't have to look at Warren anymore. Wouldn't have to look either when Warren undid his uniform breeches - that damnable blue that still haunted too many of Chris's dreams - and pulled out his cock. Warren's thumb was back between his teeth, keeping Chris's mouth open like he had to force him to behave. It was uncomfortable, painful almost, but Chris didn't complain, didn't complain either when Warren pushed his cock between Chris's lips, too fast for Chris to get accustomed again to its girth or taste, too fast for him to do anything before the tip hit the back of his throat and made him gag.

But there was no pulling back, caught between Warren's hand on his jaw and the other grabbing his hair to hold him in place. No choice but to take it and breathe as best he could, and at least Warren wasn't laughing, wasn't talking anymore just like he'd said. 

Chris tried to pretend his own cock didn't twitch every time Warren made him choke, every time Warren's hand tightened so hard on his hair that Chris worried he'd yank it out, every time Warren's breath caught above him and turned into a moan. He wasn't even doing much, wasn't allowed to do much, but it was more than enough to chase all other thoughts from his mind.

When Warren spoke again, his voice was already raspy and breathless. 

"You wanna get yourself off, Chris, is that it?" Warren stroked his hair slowly, just for a moment until he felt Chris nod. "All right. Don't wanna listen to your whining all day if I don't let you." 

Chris didn't need more than that, shoved his hand inside his breeches to pull out his cock and stroke himself desperately in time with Warren's thrusts into his mouth. He could barely breathe anymore, but even the need for air paled next to his need for more of this. His throat was burning, his lips stretched around Warren's cock, black dots dancing in front of his eyes. He gasped desperately when Warren suddenly pulled his cock out of Chris's mouth, air rushing back into his lungs, and a moment later come splattered over his cheek, his chin, his lips. He came over his own hand then, his moans too loud now that Warren didn't bother to muffle them anymore, loud and unrestrained and pathetic. Chris felt himself tremble under the hand that still stroked his hair, tried to make himself breathe evenly until his chest wasn't too tight anymore.

When he finally looked up, Warren was watching him. The look in his eyes was different now, less harsh, but probably that was just because even Major Marquis Warren was in a better mood when he'd just come his brains out. He even smiled a little when Chris licked his lips.

"Shoulda known you weren't helping me out of the goodness of your black heart, Major."

Warren laughed again, loud and bellowing as always, but even that sounded a little friendlier than it had earlier that morning.

"No, I just don't like it when you get too scratchy. Seemed like a fair enough bargain to me." He'd tucked himself back in, then turned away from their little camp to start getting their horses ready. "Go clean yourself up so we can be on our way. And watch that wrist, because I'm not doing all the work when we've finally tracked down that damn bounty."


End file.
